


Against the Edge

by MagicEye



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, enemies to... still enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicEye/pseuds/MagicEye
Summary: Tyrande Whisperwind, last matriarch of the Kal’dorei, Night Warrior, chosen of Elune, has Nathanos Blightcaller exactly where she wants him.Unfortunately for her, it seems where she has him is exactly where he’d like to be.
Relationships: Tyrande Whisperwind/Nathanos Blightcaller
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Against the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got around to doing the Nathanos quest, and my immediate reaction was "what the fuck? this guy is horny as hell!". As a longtime Alliance player, i had no idea-- apparently, I've been missing out. Anyways, I wrote a real short story about it real quick. It's not particularly graphic, i was more interested in writing about the "Nathanos is horny about things" part than the "also, he dies" part. Enjoy!

Tyrande Whisperwind, last matriarch of the Kal’dorei, Night Warrior, chosen of Elune, has Nathanos Blightcaller exactly where she wants him.

Unfortunately for her, it seems where she has him is exactly where he’d like to be.

The insistent press of her blade to his neck constricts his voice, his breathing. His burning eyes are narrowed to slits and focused, unwavering, on her and her alone. 

She despises the shit-eating grin he manages to summon despite his position. After everything he’s done in Sylvanas’ name, simpering after her like one of his begging, cowering dogs, the least he could do is look frightened at his impending third death and the woman who brings it.

Instead, when she forces the edge of her glaive against his pallid neck just that much harder, his eyelids flutter.

Instead, he rasps out “oh, _Tyrande...”_ in a voice that holds something other than fear entirely. 

And instead, as her eyes flick down in unguarded suspicion, she finds him hard in his leathers. 

Tyrande hisses— a visceral animal sound, one that emerges from a place of utterly enraged frustration where no words would suffice. 

Briefly, she is reminded of a certain young Stormrage, equally undeterred by her anger and equally aroused when she pinned him to the ground during a sparring match that got too intense. She had been ready to kill him.

He had been ready to take it. 

_Anything for her attention._

And Nathanos is laughing at her recognition, croaking against her blade, shifting on the hard ground of the Plaguelands where he kneels before her.

Tyrande grinds her teeth-- searching for a way to force him to submit, to humiliate him one last time before his death.

But she thinks of nothing. 

And so, she plays the game his way. Meets his unrelenting gaze. Plants her booted foot on his crotch and _grinds_. 

Nathanos practically leaps at the contact, sucking in a rough breath and breaking eye contact for the first time since their encounter started to see where she’s touching him.

His entire body forms one hard line. Tyrande is determined to make it waver.

She presses ever more insistently, with both blade and boot, staring him down. Her bared teeth are not unlike those of a feral beast, and when his smoldering eyes come to rest upon hers, she finally feels him concede— a recognition of her superiority.

And Nathanos loves it. He wavers for her, goes lax beneath her tools of subordination; submits entirely.

The smile never leaves his face, even as he comes in his pants in full view of the Night Warrior. He husks out a sigh, letting his eyes fall closed, and allows himself to rut against the sole of her shoe. 

_Pathetic._ The way he likes it.

And at last, watching him slump against her weapon, Tyrande Whisperwind takes her victory. She slits his throat with a simple action, no fanfare, and he spurts blood this time. It’s a quiet victory, not a raging, roaring thing: a solemn testament to the lives of her people lost. There's a mercy to it.

A fitting end to the Banshee Queen’s loyal dog. As in life, so in third death.


End file.
